Shatter
by Astaralis
Summary: Rated M for a reason. AU; darker than my other fics. Rachel is shattered and unable to pick up the pieces.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is very different from my other fics; it is much, much darker. Please be warned that there are some very graphic images ahead, and that they are disconcerting. Please do not read this if you think it might not be for you. You have been warned. Please, read and review.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the glee.

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It begins the way it always does, she supposes. It is high school in suburbia, after all. There are only so many ways that things can go. There are only so many different options, dramas, loves, crises, and happy moments a town can bear. So it begins the way it always has to begin for a girl. With a boy.

This boy is different. Sure, he lures her in with intelligent answers and kind eyes, but he snares her with a different kind of trap. What could be sweet and innocent becomes intense, violent, insane. She wishes that she had never asked the questions she did, that she had learned to stop speaking so much. She wishes that she hadn't had to ride the bus that day, and that she had gotten there early enough to grab a seat in the front, not the back.

Not the only seat left. Not the seat next to him.

But she did; her dads couldn't pick her up, she was late to the bus, she sat next to him; she can't undo it now. She can't change what happened, what's happening, she thinks, as time moves forward.

The bus began to roll forward and she had cringed in her seat, waiting for someone to take advantage of the fact that she was sitting next to the aisle; an open target for any high school social sniper. She waited for the slushy, the egg, books, paper, gum, _anything_ to land on her or her school bag, but nothing came. Instead, there was a voice next to her murmuring, "They won't do anything to you while you sit here. They're too afraid of pissing me off…"

She had jolted and turned towards the voice, the boy she recognizes from two doors down, but has never spoken to before. He has never taunted her, he has never thrown eggs at her house or chucked a slushy in her face. He has never called her "RuPaul" or "Man-Hands" that she's aware of. He has never before acknowledged her existence.

"I'm sorry?" she had asked him before she could stop herself.

"You don't have to worry," the boy had said calmly, teasingly. "They won't do anything to you while you sit next to me. They fear my wrath," he told her, as if he had been letting her in on a secret.

She had felt a shiver run up her spine at his words despite his joking manner. When he had smiled at her next, she had pushed the shiver away, blocking the fear. She shouldn't have done that. Too late now.

Instead, she had smiled back at him. Risky move, considering what her smiles had garnered her in the past. She had been pleasantly surprised to discover that he continued to smile at her, and had begun to carry on a conversation with her. As the bus had rolled through town towards their houses, she and the boy had gone from a spirited conversation about movies to the heavier topic of religion.

She had been raised Jewish, even though one of her fathers' families was Lutheran. Her fathers hadn't denied her access to her Lutheran family's traditions and faith, but they hadn't discussed any other religions or faiths either. Since reaching high school, she had been introduced to a multitude of experiences she had never encountered, but what she found most intriguing were different religions.

If she was being honest, she would admit that she had first been drawn into her fascination with religion by trying to determine what type of Christian would preach kindness and forgiveness, but would make her life hell throughout the week. She didn't understand, and she wanted to understand.

She should have known that it didn't matter what religion a person was, high school was high school, and cruelty was cruelty. Social hierarchies existed despite of (and with no attention paid to) religious differences. She should have known that it wasn't that she was Jewish, and not Baptist or Catholic, that made it okay for people to pick on her. But she was fourteen and naïve and looking for something to blame, and at the time, it had seemed feasible.

She knew now, months later, that it wasn't at all feasible, and she had been incorrect in her thinking. However, her fascination had begun, and now that she had started exploring theology, she found herself eager to continue.

So when the boy next to her on the bus had started explaining something about how a scene in a movie had reminded him of something from Mass, well, she just hadn't been able to help herself. She had explained her quest for knowledge, and when they had gotten off the bus to walk down the street to their houses, he had still been explaining the concept of Catholic guilt to her. In fact, he was so in depth with his description that he suggested that they take a walk to continue their discussion.

She had agreed. She shouldn't have.

They had walked around the neighborhood talking, until they ended up full circle at the bus stop at the clubhouse at the top of their street. He showed no indication of slowing, so she followed him obediently as he began walking back around to the tennis courts.

She had followed close behind him, listening, as he led the way towards the back of the tennis courts. The trees and bushes grew thicker together here, as if they weren't cared for nearly as often. The chill in the air was growing colder; the sun was setting and it was late fall in Ohio. When he stopped abruptly at the back corner of the tennis courts, she almost ran into him.

She should have kept moving.

Instead, she had stopped almost as suddenly and ceased movement almost an inch away from his chest.

"Sorry," she had giggled, and looked up at his face, smiling her apology for almost running into him.

"Don't be," he had said, and though he had been smiling, had seen that the smile was different now, though she couldn't tell how.

"I had a really great time talking with you today, Rachel," he said, and she had beamed up at him, believing him.

"I had a great time, too," she had replied, and when he had leaned down to kiss her, her heart had started thrumming as if a thousand hummingbirds were taking flights inside of her.

His face had come closer and closer to hers, and she had closed her eyes and pulled in a tiny gasp of air before his lips had landed softly on hers. The pressure was light but present, and his mouth was warm on hers.

It had been her first kiss. It shouldn't have been.

She should have opened her eyes and seen the change on his face. She didn't, but she should have.

Instead, she had kept her eyes closed and when his mouth came back to hers the pressure was more than present, it was persistent, and when he used his teeth to pull down her lower lip, she should have told him to slow down, tiger, but she didn't.

Instead his mouth attacked her and he backed her against the fencing of the tennis courts and pushed her up against it. She could feel the metal dig into her skin, and she tried to shift away from it, but he had held her in place.

"Hey, hold on, the fence is hurting my back," she tried to tell him, but he didn't stop, he didn't listen. She tried to squirm away from him, but he held her forcibly to the fencing, his left hand on her right arm, his body crushing hers against the fence.

He had continued to use his teeth to open her mouth; she could taste the blood mixing with her saliva. She could feel the metal pulling at her sweater, and she could feel his right hand touching her, pulling at her, and she couldn't stop him.

She felt him shove his hand down her pants and as he pushed past her panties she began to fight back, trying to push him off of her. Her attempts were futile. She had started to cry, and he had stopped biting her mouth long enough to whisper in her ear, "I'll stop if you want me to; I'll stop."

She had begged him, please, _please_, she wanted him to stop, _please_, but even though he kept repeating his words over and over and she kept telling him to stop, he never stopped.

Later, when he zipped up his jeans and walked away, she lay on the hardening ground behind the tennis courts and stared silently at the dead leaves beside her until there was barely any light left in the sky.

She had gotten to her feet and pulled up her pants, zipping and buttoning them securely. She had straightened her sweater and brushed the leaves out of her hair and the dirt off of her body. She had picked up her backpack and begun to walk home in the twilight.

She had steeled herself as she walked by his house, forcing herself to concentrate on the road. At the last second, she had turned her head, unable to keep from looking. He stood illuminated in the window of his dining room, staring at her and smirking as she walked past his house.

She shouldn't have been late to the bus that day. She shouldn't have sat next to Michael Karofsky. Too late now.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank-you for the reviews! And a further note of warning: it's going to get darker before it gets lighter. I'm going to try to model this story so that it's still in canon through Sectionals, for the most part. I hope that you stick with it. Also, please read and review (again!). **

**Disclaimer: I own not a bit of Glee. **

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She had thought that she would now be in the free and clear. Fall had come and gone, winter snows had replaced the dead leaves on the grounds behind the tennis courts. Spring flowers had burst into bloom, and the summer heat had provided her a brief respite from school. From...him.

She had refused to ride the bus again after the incident behind the tennis courts. She had refused, and when her fathers had asked her for answers, she had provided them with none. She wouldn't take the bus anymore. She would rather hide in the auditorium until one of her dads was able to come to the school to pick her up.

She had learned how to become an escape artist; ducking into empty classrooms and girls' bathrooms, waiting for large groups of people to walk by so that she could move with the group and not be separated from the herd. Sure, she wasn't included in any conversations, but she didn't mind. She didn't even notice.

She never went for walks around her neighborhood; she never went up the street in anything other than a moving vehicle. While in summers past, she had often booked babysitting jobs at the swimming pool while mothers played tennis on the courts, this year she had declined all job offers.

But now, now that school was starting; she had thought that she would be okay. Michael Karofsky had graduated in the spring, and now that he was going away to school, she would be free of his intense stares in the hallways. She thought that she would be free of the nightmares she had about him reaching out to grab her from the hallway and pull her into an abandoned classroom. Now that he was gone, there wouldn't be a threat of any repeat occurrences.

She wasn't wrong, but at the same time, she was very wrong. Because Michael Karofsky may have graduated but his younger brother, Dave, was still in her grade. He looked almost exactly like his older brother; he was build almost exactly like his older brother. And this year, they had a class together.

She was sure that Dave didn't know anything about what had happened between his older brother and her, because he acted the same way he had always acted towards her. Indifferent. Sure, he made fun of her and taunted her, but he didn't change his taunts. He didn't add threats into the mix. He didn't undress her with his eyes or make lewd comments. And he didn't stare.

That was the best part, the lack of staring. She still refused to ride the bus, she still hid in the auditorium, but she didn't have to be an escape artist at school anymore. The only times she needed to look for escape routes were when she spotted an infuriating mohawk bobbing through the crowds armed with a slushy and a sneer. She started carrying a travel suitcase with an extra set of clothes to school instead. It was easier than trying to hide. Because hiding reminded her of _him_, and she was determined to not be afraid of him this year.

It wasn't as if anyone had noticed her fear last year. No one had commented on her change in demeanor, no one had asked her if she was okay, did she need to talk to anyone? Nothing had changed. She was still taunted and ridiculed and slushied. She still didn't have any friends.

Her fathers had asked her if she was okay when she had come home from the incident behind the tennis courts, and she had seriously considered telling them the truth. Instead, she had thought of the menace in _his_ eyes as he had stared at her from the window as she walked by his house, and told them that no, she was fine. She had just missed the bus and walked home from school instead.

She lied. It was the first really big lie that she had ever told them, but as time went on it became easier for her to lie more and more. Where had she been? Walking. Where was she going? Out to the store. What was she doing in her bedroom for hours upon hours? Homework. Reading. Preparing for her next Myspace video.

In reality, she had been mastering the art of climbing in and out of her bedroom window. She was on the front left corner of the house, and just beneath her bedroom window was a covered sitting area with a metal railing. Short as she was, if she crawled backwards out of the window and hung from the window ledge with her fingertips, she could _just_ reach the brick crevice where she could drop another few inches until her feet hit the railing. Once she was on the railing, she could grasp the brick support column and then drop down to the ground. Going up was more difficult, but manageable (barely).

She hadn't mastered these techniques in order to sneak out of her house more effectively, because she didn't have anywhere to go. Her fathers would have been overjoyed to let her walk out the front door at any time of day or night, if she was going to meet friends. She wasn't sneaking out so that she could go walking around the neighborhood alone, because she didn't want to risk running into _him_ before he moved away.

She had mastered those techniques so that her fathers would stop asking her if she was okay. She wanted them to stop telling her that she needed to get out more. She didn't need to get out more. She needed to get out _less_. _In_ provided her with more safety than _out_ ever could. In, she wasn't vulnerable to slushy attacks or teenage rapists. In, she could stare at the wall for hours. In, she could lay in the bath for hours, until the water was ice cold.

The bathtub became a special refuge for her, too. She would run the water before she "went out" and then she climbed up the front of her house and back into her bedroom. She would sink into the water and stare at the bathroom ceiling, remembering, crying, trying to block out what had happened.

It wasn't blockable. It wasn't the sort of thing that she could just push out of her mind and pretend had never happened, but she needed it to not have happened. He had made her see that much, just with his stares. So instead, she bottled everything up inside of her, releasing it only when she was able to cry undisturbed.

There had come a point at the end of the summer when crying had stopped helping her; when it had stopped being cathartic. There were no tears left inside of her to cry, so she had tried to find another way to release everything inside of her.

Her first inclination was to turn to drugs and alcohol...that's what people always turned to when they wanted to forget, and to feel no pain. But the whiskey she swiped from her dad's liquor cabinet burned as it went down her throat and smelled awful, so she put the bottle back, a little watered down. Buying drugs would involve interacting with someone, most likely a someone who went to her high school, because she wasn't going to wander over to the seedy side of Lima. She wouldn't walk there, and she couldn't exactly ask her fathers to take her to her drug dealer. So drugs and alcohol were out.

She had tried writing; keeping a journal that she wrote in whenever she needed to release the anger and pain, but if anything, writing about what had happened only solidified its' reality, and then she found that she couldn't breathe. So writing was out, too.

She had been reading one night just after the start of the new school year, trying to find comfort in other people's words and experiences, when she found the next form of release she would try. She had been reading Ophelia Speaks, a book her fathers had gotten her in a misguided attempt to provide a female perspective on any "issues" she might have. She had never opened the book before, but she needed to find a way to release the pain so she was willing to try anything. She had lain in the bathtub for four hours, letting the water get icy cold, trying to cry. She had nearly shriveled herself with wrinkles, but she hadn't been able to cry, and the pain and frustration were building up inside of her.

The book was powerful, moving. She hadn't expected it to affect her, but it did. Reading the stories of other women's journeys was heartbreaking for her, and instead of helping her relieve the pressure in her chest, it increased it.

She had been reading through the book when she began to read an entry from a girl who wrote about how she, too, had lain in the bathtub for hours, hoping for a release. Except that when crying stopped being cathartic for her, this girl had moved on. She had found a way to get the pain out of her body and get the pressure out of her chest. She had been able to breathe again, and Rachel wanted that, she wanted it so badly that she stopped reading before the girl's story was finished.

That night, after her fathers had gone to bed, she ran the bath again until it was almost full. When she got in, she lay back and stared at the ceiling, willing the tears to come. _Please, please let the tears come. Don't let it come to this. Please, if I'm not supposed to do this, let me cry,_ she begged silently.

When no tears welled in her eyes, she reached down to the floor next to the bathtub and picked up the razor blade she had left there earlier. Trembling slightly, she raised the blade up so that she could see it, the cold metal glinting in the light. She stared at it for a moment, and then she closed her eyes.

She drew in a shaky breath and then tightened her resolve, her fingers gripping the steel of the blade. She opened her eyes as she exhaled and then lightly dragged the razor over her left shoulder. Nothing happened. There was no swell of blood, no feeling of release. Nothing. Not even a scratch mark.

_Focus, Rachel_, she thought to herself, and brought the blade to her shoulder again. This time, she pressed down as she dragged the razor blade across her skin. This time, she felt some sort of electric current run through her skin and she gazed at her shoulder as tiny beads of blood began to burst through the skin.

She didn't know how long she lay there in the bathtub staring at her shoulder, but when she got out her skin was wrinkly and for once, she didn't care. She felt lighter than she had felt before she got in the bathtub, as if those few drops of blood had relieved her of some of the weight she carried on her chest and in her head each day. She could breathe.

When she lay down in her bed that night to go to sleep, she was still riding the high she had gotten from seeing those little drops of blood and she could feel the energy and the power coursing through her body. That tiny little release gave her back some of her determination, some of her Rachel Berry-ness. She curled up in the bed and drifted off to sleep, breathing easier than she had in months.

The next day she went to see Principal Figgins and got Sandy Ryerson fired. This year would be different. She was different. The school year had to be different, too.

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AN2: I also do not own Ophelia Speaks, either, which was almost like a bible for me during my high school years.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: This chapter is a little bit lighter than the past 2, but there is a lot more darkness ahead. A few people mentioned that I should provide a note of warning about Rachel's actions, and I agree. So, here's my PSA: **Self-mutilation is a very serious addiction and action, and I do not condone it, nor do I recommend it anyone under any circumstances. I struggled against this addiction for years and I have the scars (both mental and physical) to prove it. If you are in pain, please do not attempt self-mutilation as a way to release it. _It doesn't work. _It doesn't help. If anyone wants to talk to someone with experience in these matters, while I am in no way a licensed professional, I would be happy to share my experiences with you. Even if you don't talk to me, please talk to someone. **There, PSA over. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming. **

**Disclaimer: You and I both know I don't own this.

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This was her moment; she could feel it. She was beginning to regain some of the power she had once held in the palms of her hands; the chords of her throat. She was beginning to regain some of her confidence, and the energy that this confidence created buoyed her up above the slushies and the Myspace comments. She was getting herself back.

The first step had been to regain music. She had always known she would be a star; that she would burst onto Broadway and take the world by storm. She had been preparing for her entire life; voice lessons, dance lessons, acting coaches. Everything she had done was in preparation for the moment when she finally left Lima (and all it represented) behind her.

Mr. Ryerson, freak that he was, had tried to take that away from her. When he hadn't even let her audition for the glee club and earn the solo that was rightfully hers, she had slunk away to lick her wounds, adding another line to the checklist of things to sit in the bathtub and sob about. Now that she was finding her way out of the tears, she was looking for an opportunity to fight back; reclaim her star. Sandy Ryerson handed her the key to her coup d'etat.

She had sat in Principal Figgins office and choked out the words, "it was so wrong!" and cried crocodile tears (which were not cathartic at all) and implicated Mr. Ryerson in participating in pervy debauchery. Despite her victory and the elation it brought with it, that night she lay in her bathtub and stared at the red line on her shoulder. She fought the pressure on her chest as long as she could, but in the end she still picked up the razor blade and made another slash mark on her skin.

Now that Ryerson was gone, Mr. Shuester, a Spanish teacher, had taken over the club. When she had seen the sign-up sheet in the hallway, she had been thrilled to add her name to the audition slots. She had pressed that gold star sticker firmly in place, and was barely dazed (though fully frozen) when that _miscreant_ Puck had tossed a strawberry-lime slushy into her face.

Mr. Shuester, of course, had seen the star quality in her and had accepted her into the club without a moment's hesitation. She had come home that afternoon, beaming, and her fathers took notice of her change in demeanor.

"Rachel, what's gotten into you?" her daddy asked her, his mouth curving into a smile.

"Just excited about glee club, Daddy!" she tossed back at him as she pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.

"I take it your audition went well, then?" asked her dad as he walked into the kitchen.

"Yes, I performed 'On My Own' from Les Mis, and I didn't miss a note," she replied cheerfully.

"Well I hope that glee practice doesn't interfere with your other activities, Rachel," her father warned her. "You already have voice lessons, ballet, modern dance, acting class, all of your school clubs, your commitment to the JCC, and remember, you start Driver's Ed courses tomorrow after school."

"I'm sure it will be fine, Dad," she responded, and left the kitchen to start her homework. For the first time in weeks she felt as if she had something good in her life; something to look forward to. Her sense of purpose was returning to her and it impacted everything she did.

Later that night; however, in the quiet stillness of her room she could feel the darkness begin to creep in on her; the pressure slowly building in her chest. She lay flat on her back and stared up at the ceiling gasping for air, trying to push away the suffocation with thoughts of glee rehearsals and gold stars. The weight descended ruthlessly upon her and before she knew it, she was running to the bathroom and filling up the bath.

Once the tub was full she stripped off her clothes and stared into the mirror. Her left shoulder was crisscrossed with a web of red lines. Some of them had begun to scab over and (sometimes when she was unable to breathe at school) she would pick at the scabs until they began to bleed again. These tiny bloodlettings didn't ease the pressure the way the razor blade did but they were enough to make it so that she could inhale again.

She scrutinized the web of lines on her shoulder, searching for room to make one more. Just one. That was all she would allow herself tonight. Too many good things had happened today to allow for more than one. More than that would just be gluttonous, and she would not take more than she needed.

_Just one is okay_ she thought. Just one to ease the stones off of her chest so that she could sleep tonight. She sank into her bathtub and let the hot water wash over her body. Sometimes when she emerged from the bath after letting the blood flow she felt almost as if she were emerging from the womb – she was fresh and new and real.

Tonight was not one of those nights. She sliced quickly across her skin with the blade and felt the cleansing thrum flow through her veins. She watched as the blood beaded and ran down her arm to swirl into the water. After the blood stopped flowing, she stood up and felt slightly…disappointed. It didn't feel the same. It wasn't as purifying, as cleansing, as it used to feel. But it was enough. _It was enough for tonight_.

She had lain in bed and stared at the ceiling until she was able to fall asleep. Tonight, she dreamed of _him_, and when she woke up with her fist in her mouth, she was angry with him for invading her dreams and trying to take her happiness away from her. He had taken too much already.

The next day passed quickly by: workout, car ride, slushy shower, costume change #1, class, class, class, slushy shower, costume change #2, lunch, class, class, class, class. By the time the day was over, she was sort of looking forward to her drivers' ed class. It felt right to be learning how to do something that would signify her independence and her place in the world as an adult.

She walked into the driving school classroom filled with confidence. That confidence quickly fled from her when she found herself nose-to-tile with the floor. She could hear people snickering at her misfortune, but slightly behind her people were outright laughing. She struggled not to cry as she tried to push herself off the ground. _Never let them see you cry_ she scolded herself.

She glanced behind her and felt the breath leave her lungs. _Of course_ she groaned inwardly.

"Dude, did you _see_ that shit? She totally didn't even see my leg, and when she fell, I got a sweet look at that Berry ass of hers! Damn, Berry, why you hidin' that ass with those skirts of yours?"

"Hello, David," she responded, her voice ice cold. "I wasn't aware that you would be attending this driver's education course with me. What an unpleasant surprise."

"Yeah, Karofsky, I thought that your parents weren't going to let you get a car until you went to college, like your bro," one of the laughing boys said.

She was forgotten from the moment his friend called for his attention, but she continued to listen to their conversation as she walked over to the seat farthest away from their group.

"Yeah man, they were, but then they got pissed about dropping me early for detention and taking me to and from hockey practice. It wasn't like I could just take the bus like Mike did, so they put me in here. When I get out I get a sweet ride!" Karofsky cheered.

She was chilled by the mention of his brother. _His_ vision swam before her eyes whether they were closed or open; even though she knew it was Dave speaking, she heard _his_ voice. She could feel the pressure mounting in her chest and she automatically pushed her right hand under the collar of her shirt. Nails scrabbling, she picked furiously at the scabs until she could feel the blood begin to flow and the pressure begin to recede.

At that moment, the door to the classroom closed and an older man with a football player's build walked to the front of the room.

"Good afternoon kids, my name is Ed Freeman and I'll be your course instructor for the next few weeks. We'll do our in-class sessions together, but all of your real-time instruction will be conducted individually throughout the course." His voice was warm and welcoming and she could feel herself calming down faster due to the soothing nature of his voice.

"Now, I'm a good ol' southern boy at heart," Mr. Freeman continued, "and my mama raised me to always make sure that the ladies go first. So when you sign-up for your driving times, the girls will sign-up first; then the boys. Let's do that first, okay? We'll go in alphabetical order." There was a brief pause as he shuffled through his paperwork to find the roll.

She knew she would be called soon; the last name of "Berry" didn't afford her much preparation time. She glanced down at the puffy cap-sleeve of her navy blouse. Good. None of the scabs had bled through.

"Rachel Berry!" the instructor called, and she stumbled out of her seat and moved towards the desk. Karofsky's group of puck-heads laughed again, and she ducked her head down as she walked to the front of the room.

"You doing alright today, Rachel?" he asked her, and once again, she was calmed by his voice.

"Sure," she replied, and quickly scribbled her name in the first available time slot on each sheet. That way she could get this over and done with and not have deal with yet another reminder of _him_.

"You sure, honey?" Mr. Freeman questioned her, and she could hear the disbelief in his voice.

"I'm fine," she replied softly, and walked back to her seat. The boys in the back of the room laughed again, and she felt her neck get hot and itchy. Once again, she scratched at the marks on her shoulder. Tonight…tonight she felt she deserved more than one.


End file.
